


Tell Me What You Want

by greatveiledbear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Confessions, First Kiss, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Sherlock, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining, Pining Sherlock, Rated teen for language, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sherlock in Love, Sherlock is adorkable and John is fed up, implied slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6298144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatveiledbear/pseuds/greatveiledbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock messed up. He really messed up this time, and he knows it. He's just praying his friendship with John is salvageable. </p><p>And then a late night conversation turns into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell Me What You Want

**Author's Note:**

> No particular time stamp to this one. Maybe pre-Reichenbach in an alternate timeline?

 

Sherlock wakes up quite suddenly, though for once, he’s not sure why. It wasn’t a nightmare, not this time. But he doesn’t think he was having a nice dream either. He rubs his eyes, trying to recall it, but it slips away like fog between his fingers and soon it’s completely gone.

He tries to go back to sleep.

He can’t.

He keeps thinking about John. Out of all the thoughts swirling in his head— _BartsbodiesmissingPullmanboredmarksonthestretcheroverboredboredboredcigarrettesneedoneneedneedneeddead—_ he keeps returning to John. And, more specifically, John that afternoon, pulling away with that puzzled look on his face, a hand up to keep Sherlock at bay.         

Was it something he’d done? Besides the obvious. Sherlock runs through every interaction he and John had ever had, every comment, conversation, joke, deflection, innuendo that he could remember. He closes his eyes and paces the John Watson wing of his mind palace, trying to see something new. Something that might have caused…whatever had happened.         

The trouble was, it had been so _unexpected._ Knowing John as he did, Sherlock would have guessed (had he thought about it beforehand) at John reacting one of two ways: enthusiastic cooperation or violent rejection. Neither had happened, and instead, they are stuck in a sort of middle grey area. A purgatory.           

There’s no chance of sleep now, not with his mind this awake. He sits up, his head buzzing, and puts on his slippers before shuffling out to the kitchen.         

To his surprise—and Sherlock is rarely surprised when he’s not on a case, but today it’s happened twice, he must be having an off day—John is already there, sitting at the table and reading something from his phone.           

John flicks his eyes at Sherlock, and then away. Sherlock clears his throat. The silence rings in his ears.          

“Couldn’t sleep?” asks John.         

“No,” says Sherlock, grateful for the sound. “I mean yes. Couldn’t sleep.” His hands are wet. Why are his hands wet? It’s just John, he shouldn’t be sweating.        

“Mm,” says John, perusing his phone. “I made chamomile.”       

Sherlock rejects that and pulls down English breakfast tea instead. It’s more so he has something to do than out of any particular hatred of chamomile.           

There’s another awful silence while the kettle boils, and then John puts down his phone with a sigh.           

“Right,” he says. “Either we talk about this, or we’re never going to be able to be in the same room again.”          

Sherlock frowns. “Why not?”          

“Because,” says John, and stops. He starts again, then shuts up and shakes his head.         

“Fine,” says Sherlock, and to his horror, his voice cracks. He doesn’t know why, or why he’s gripping the counter so very tightly, or why his stomach is full of fear. “Let’s talk. What do you want me to say?”        

“It’s not about what I _want_ you to say,” says John, clearly frustrated. “It’s about what _you_ want to say. Or what you need to say.” His hands are clenched on the table.           

Sherlock smiles humorlessly. “’ _Sorry.’_ Is that it?”          

“That’s not—Sherlock. Don’t be an idiot.”       

“Well, what else am I supposed to say? I tried something and it didn’t work.” Sherlock gestures with his hands, a burst of nervous energy. “What do you want me to do? Just walk around like it never happened?” He clutches the cup of hot water—he hasn’t put in the tea bag yet—trying to read John, to deduce, but he can’t.          

“Obviously that’s not what I want!” John’s voice comes out loud. He winces, quiets himself. “If I wanted that I wouldn’t have brought it up now.” He rubs his eyes.           

“It didn’t mean anything,” Sherlock lies, his voice cracking again. It hurts to say this. It’s never hurt this much to lie before, not like it hurts now, a deep ache in his chest, but surely this is what John needs to hear. “I was just excited. I didn’t mean it.” _But I did._           

John looks away, stares at the wall. Even for Sherlock, his face is difficult to read. “So that’s it then,” he says flatly.          

Sherlock feels a twinge of panic. “That’s what?”          

“That’s _it._ ” John shoves his cup of chamomile tea away from him and stands. _“_ We just go back to being friends. Like nothing happened.”          

It makes sense, but John’s body language is all wrong. It’s too tense. Too guarded. Sherlock folds his arms, matching John’s tone as he bitterly asks, “Isn’t that what you want?”          

“ _No,_ ” says John, too loud again, and then, “No. That’s—that’s not what I want.” He stands and turns away.          

“What, then?”           

Sherlock’s heart is in his mouth as the question escapes. For once, his mind is quiet. But it’s not the good quiet, the smoking/drugs/casework/focused quiet. It’s terrifying, a state of panic, like a rabbit hiding beneath a bush, staying absolutely still as the fox prowls the undergrowth.           

“I wanted you to think about it,” John finally murmurs. His left hand rests on the table, still clenched into a fist. “I wanted it to mean something. I wanted—” He swallows and shakes his head.           

“You wanted what?”          

“Why don’t you use your big brain and figure it out,” John says bitterly, starting for the door.           

“I’m _trying,_ you idiot!” Sherlock yells, startling himself. John jumps and looks back at him, and he takes a deep breath. “I’m trying to figure out what happened, which is why I’m _asking_ you. I don’t have enough data to work it out on my own.”           

John crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe. “Deduce it off of me, then.”           

“I can’t. I can tell what you had for dinner and that you were on your computer until two hours ago, when you tried to sleep but couldn’t, and that you came out here an hour forty five minutes after that, but I can’t tell the solution to this.” Sherlock’s chest feels rough. Scratchy. Like it’s coated with glass fiber. “I need you to tell me what to do. How I can make this up to you. I need to be your friend, John.” _And I want to be more, but that’s clearly not going to—_ He blinks as his vision swims. Is he _crying?_ He can’t be crying. That doesn’t—it doesn’t make _sense._         

Sherlock runs his hand over his face. His own breathing is loud in his ears. John watches him quietly.           

“When you kissed me,” John says, “what was going through your head?”           

“Oh, God,” Sherlock mutters, because he _really_ doesn’t want to answer that question. But it’s John, and he owes him this. He summons the memory and steps into it.

           

 _Yesterday afternoon. They’d just solved a case, an incident in Norwood of a builder trying to frame his lawyer for murdering him. The builder had really been hiding in the walls of his house the whole time, and once Sherlock had deduced the minutae showing him the solution, he and John set off the smoke alarm to flush the man out. It had been a tough case to solve, and as the police drove away a rush of endorphins overwhelmed Sherlock so strongly that he’d seized John, who stood beside him with a proud, happy smile, and kissed him._

_He’d put everything into that kiss, every bit of two years of pining and falling and being dizzyingly in love with John, everything he’d never said, every “I love you” he’d bitten back because John wasn’t interested and Sherlock wouldn’t,_ couldn’t _lose his friendship for anything in the world. And as soon as Sherlock fully realized what he was doing, he pulled away, so quickly that John wouldn’t have had a chance to kiss him back even if he’d wanted to._

 _“Sorry,” Sherlock had stammered. “That didn’t—I didn’t mean—John, I don’t—”_

_The shock slid off John’s face, replaced with disappointment. Sherlock had been too frazzled to read it clearly. “Well, that happened,” John said brusquely, turning away and walking towards the village. Sherlock had followed him, ears ringing, and not a word had passed between them for the rest of the afternoon._

           

Now, Sherlock has his head in his hands, trying to work out what he did wrong.

“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he says.           

“Why not?” John’s voice isn’t audibly angry or judgmental.           

“Because you didn’t want me to,” says Sherlock. “Because I ruined our friendship.”           

“What did you want to get out of kissing me?”         

“Nothing, I—I didn’t _think._ ” Sherlock lifts his head and presses his fingertips to his mouth. The pressure grounds him a little. “I was running on adrenaline and instinct. I didn’t think, I just _did._ ”           

“If anyone else had been standing there,” says John, “would you have kissed them instead?”           

“No. Definitely not.”          

“Why not?"           

 _In for a penny…_ “Because I wouldn’t want to,” says Sherlock. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for ages and this time I didn’t stop myself.”           

“Ages.” John’s voice is unreadable, and Sherlock can’t meet his eyes. He nods.           

“How long?” John asks.          

“I don’t know. It crept up on me. It started when we moved in together and one day I looked up and realized I—”           

Sherlock cuts himself off and stares at the table.          

“That you what?” John’s voice is soft. “That you were attracted to me?”         

“No. Yes. Not just attracted.” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “That I love you,” he says, his voice cracking. “Romantically _and_ as a friend. That I want more, but more than that, I want _you._ I need you in my life, John, however you’ll take me. Romantic or not, it doesn’t matter, I just want to be near you. You slow me down when I need you to and you help me think and you’ve taught me how to actually _enjoy_ walking around on this stupid planet instead of just tolerating it. You keep me _right_.”          

The words are out now, and nothing Sherlock says will take them back. He wishes he could, but…it’s a relief. He prays that John won’t leave him. If they can just work through this, just keep being friends…it would be a relief not to keep this secret any more.           

John sighs, shifting his posture against the doorframe. Sherlock looks up. There’s something tired and frustrated in the way John holds his shoulders, regret in the set of his arms, and in his eyes, something like exasperation and…amusement?           

“So,” John says, his mouth twitching. “Didn’t you ever think to ask _me_ about what I’d want?”           

Sherlock is thrown. “What?” he says, the room spinning. He’s already lightheaded from the confession, and now—what is John saying?          

“You never thought to ask if I’d like more too?” John strolls across the kitchen floor and leans on the table, his hands spread flat. “You didn’t think to tell me this was something you actually wanted, and not just a stupid impulse? That it _meant_ something?”           

“I didn’t want to lose you.” Sherlock’s throat hurts. “You don’t _want_ it to mean anything, John, you were disappointed—”           

“I was disappointed that you’d kissed me for no reason, you twat.”           

The words stop Sherlock cold. “What?”           

John purses his lips. “If you kissed me—and I did want you to—I wanted it to be because _you_ wanted to. Because you wanted to have something, and not for it to be a stupid rush of endorphins that could’ve made you kiss anyone. When you started apologizing right away I thought—well, I thought you didn’t mean it. You _regretted_ it. Which really hurt, because I was going to kiss you back.”           

Sherlock feels like he’s on the moon, in an airless vacuum. “You were?” he whispers.           

John nods. Sherlock meets his eyes. They’re hopeful and frightened and determined all at once. It’s a look similar to the one John wears when he’s about to enter battle, but with something new shining in the corners.          

Sherlock looks away, taking a moment to compose himself. To think.           

“You know,” he says, “that kiss _was_ largely caused by endorphins and adrenaline. But I wouldn’t have kissed anyone but you.”           

“Yeah well, kissing Lestrade probably would have been a bit more awkward,” John jokes, trying to break the tension. “Since he’s married and all that.”           

“John,” says Sherlock, and from the way John looks at him he knows the doctor felt the weight of the word. “Do you want to try again?”           

“God yes,” breathes John, and Sherlock only has time to rise halfway out of his chair before John’s lips are on his, hands cupping Sherlock’s face and weaving into his hair. And _oh,_ it’s a high like Sherlock has never, ever experienced before, except it’s not a high, not really, because being high is lonely and unreal and this is about being _together._ It grounds Sherlock in the sheer wonderful reality of this moment, John’s lips warm and a little chapped against his, and John is so close that Sherlock can’t focus on anything else, his eyes closed and his mouth moving gently against Sherlock’s, drawing him in. Sherlock’s hands are on John’s waist and he grips John’s sweater as he kisses back, trying to convince himself that this is real, this is _happening._ The thought brings tears to his eyes.           

After a long, long moment, the kiss ends. John pulls away, his face still an inch from Sherlock’s. “You all right?” he murmurs, his voice husky, and Sherlock nods and pulls him into a tight hug, burying his face in John’s neck so John won’t see that he’s crying. John hugs him back and they cling together in the kitchen.          

When he’s ready, Sherlock loosens his hold and John steps back and reaches up to caress his face. “You okay?” he asks again, and this time Sherlock manages a smile as he nods. He’s still shaky and dizzy and nervous, but he is so much better than okay.           

“Good,” says John, his face creasing into a smile. “Because that was…wow.”           

Sherlock laughs a little. “Yeah.”          

“I mean… _wow._ ” John grins and shakes his head. “You sure you never had a girlfriend or boyfriend?”           

“I’ve kissed a few people now and then, mostly on the job, but it was never _anything_ like that,” says Sherlock. He swallows. “John, you know me, you know what you’re getting into, but if you want to back out now I won’t—”           

“Hush.” John puts his finger to Sherlock’s lips and, with his other hand, takes Sherlock’s. “You talk too much,” he murmurs, standing on his toes for another kiss, and Sherlock gladly reciprocates. God, he would have told John _months_ ago if he’d known it would feel like this. He’s wasted so much time…he won’t waste a second more.

 

***

           

They ended up on the couch, John tucked snugly into Sherlock’s side with Sherlock’s arm around his shoulders. They talk for hours. Mostly it’s about their relationship—what will change, what won’t, what they expect from each other…John insists on keeping his own bedroom, because he’ll still need his space, but admits that he’d like to sleep in Sherlock’s bed from now on, if that would be all right. He warns Sherlock again about his nightmares, and although Sherlock already knows, and also knows that the nightmares have been steadily declining in frequency for the last few months, he nods and rubs the back of John’s hand with his thumb.           

“You’ll need to quit putting experiments in the fridge, you know,” says John, his head heavy and comforting on Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s getting really frustrating and I won’t stand it much longer. I’ll start throwing things out.”          

Sherlock murmurs his assent and kisses the top of John’s head. He makes a mental note to clean the fridge tomorrow and scale back. John deserves that much, even if his threat is empty. His hair smells nice, and Sherlock closes his eyes and leans his cheek against it.           

A yawn takes him by surprise and he covers his mouth. “Sorry.”           

“What time is it?” John checks his phone. “Jesus, it’s four in the morning. Welp, I have at least another two hours before I have to get up for work. Want to go to bed?”           

Sherlock nods, and then a thought strikes him and he chuckles. “You never finished your tea.”           

“Better than you. You didn’t put the tea bag in.” John heaves himself off the couch without letting go of Sherlock’s hand. “We’ll clean up the mess in the morning.”          

“It _is_ morning.”           

“Well, _later_ in the morning. Up you get.” Sherlock stands and John rewards him with a kiss before leading him to the bedroom.           

They lie down in Sherlock’s bed and cuddle close, John’s head resting on Sherlock’s chest. John’s body is heavy and warm and reassuring, and to Sherlock, touching him is bliss.           

“John?” Sherlock murmurs as he starts to doze.           

“Mm?”          

“Do you think we can make this work?”           

There’s a silence before John says, “I love you, Sherlock. And I really, really want to. We’ll just have to learn to be honest with each other, yeah?”

Sherlock thinks he could learn anything if it meant he got to keep holding John like this. He kisses him one more time before closing his eyes.           

He can feel John’s breath on his neck, John’s warm weight against him, and he knows that this is _real._ Sherlock doesn’t know what will happen next, but what happened tonight—it’s the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. He’s in love with his best friend, the man who knows him inside and out and still wants him and loves him back as he is. He’s head over heels in love with John, the quiet, steadfast, loyal, brilliant soldier who’s saved him in so many ways. It’s terrifying and wondrous and breathtaking. _Is this what love is like?_ Sherlock wonders. _Putting your fate in someone else’s hands, ready to let them_ _in, let them know you? Giving them the chance to break you and praying that they won’t? Because God, even if he does—this is worth it._

John sighs softly against his collarbone and squeezes Sherlock a little tighter, and Sherlock finally lets himself drift asleep.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Idk, I hadn't watched Sherlock in ages and then this crept up on me and demanded I write it. It was super fun. Hope you enjoy!!
> 
> I'm also at greatveiledbear.tumblr.com. Come say hi! :D


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